


Hugs Work Wonders And I’ll Fight You On This

by okoomi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bear hug, Canus Interruptus!!, Flashbacks, Gen, Hank and Connor have PTSD, Suicidal Ideation, Unresolved grief, dad!hank, this fic is inspired by trauma, woohoo trauma!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okoomi/pseuds/okoomi
Summary: Hank doesn’t know what to say. He can brush people off with words and needle them into telling him the truth (he’s really fucking good at that) but heart-to-hearts have never been his strong suit. He avoids them like the plague.But here is Connor, pulling his own weight and more in a conversation that matters.Do right by him, Hank.





	Hugs Work Wonders And I’ll Fight You On This

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much a vent fic. You can see the shift in tone as my mood got better. I hope you enjoy!

There’s something exhausting about the way Connor looks at him. It’s just… exhausting.

Hank is stumbling through the hall, beer bottle in one hand and gun in the other, when Connor silently peers through the crack of his slightly ajar door. The android’s hesitation reminds him too much of his son on the nights Hank came home late from a homicide, blood on his shoes and a gaunt hollowness on his face. 

A living ghost, that’s how he feels right now. Fuck, where’s his boy? The baby boy he’d cradled in his arms from the day he was born to the day he’d died is  _ missing _ and nothing he could hold would fill the hole inside his heart.

Cole’s faint whimpering bounces around in his chest, making his hands tremble as he lays the bottle and the gun on the kitchen table so he can steady himself against the chair.

The memory is so close that the phantom stench of gasoline and smoke makes his eyes water and his head pounds from hitting the driver-side window as the car rolls over and over and over in a never ending spin. 

Calming down would be a good idea now because– this wasn’t really happening. He’s at home with his dog and his partner and things are looking up, looking pretty fucking good, but damn if that isn’t a fantastic reason to take a couple steps back, he doesn’t know what is.

_ Get your shit together, Hank. _

He tries to take a deep breath but it catches in his throat and he ends up keeling over the table, coughing his lungs out. Pathetic old drunk can’t even fucking breathe! Your old man can’t breathe, Cole, how about that? Just like you.

The thought is bitter on his tongue and he thinks he’s gonna throw up as regret grips his heart and fingers curl into his arm. 

“Hank?” the other man pushes a glass of water into his hand, guiding him slowly into the kitchen chair. He moves to gulp it down as quickly as he can, anything to get the sick chemical taste out of his mouth, but Connor’s hand is there over his own, forcing him to slow down and not spill all over himself like a fucking child. 

“I have– I have a fuckin’...” Hank actually giggles, spilling some water anyway as he’s waving off the android to take away the glass. “I got a fuckin’  _ drinking problem.” _

“Yes,” Connor’s smile is more of a pained grimace and fuck, he thought the android would get a kick out of the wordplay but he’s just making shit worse, as usual.

Connor doesn’t see any of this shit as a joke, even though that’s exactly what it is, even if Hank is still waiting on the punchline, still waiting for his son and ex-wife to pop outta the woodwork and laugh like nothing had happened and it was all just a big misunderstanding.

_ They’re not coming back, Hank. _

He buries his face into his shaking hands, fighting the overwhelming need to weep, but it’s like trying to hold water in your hands– it leaks through your fingers no matter how hard you try and you gotta let go at some point. His grief is forcing its way through the cracks, his son is spilling all over the ground and he can’t stop it, he can’t make it stop. 

Connor places his hand on Hank’s shoulder but it doesn’t feel like Connor. It feels like the pretty android doctor who had quietly leaned in to whisper her condolences as if she understood what it meant to lose someone; what it meant to live and then, just as suddenly, to die.

“Don’t  _ fucking  _ touch me,” Hank grits out, not knowing which android he’s talking to.

“Okay,” Connor says, reluctantly letting his hand fall away from the other's shoulder. He does, however, gently pull out one of the kitchen chairs to settle down next to Hank, careful not to make any sudden moves. 

Connor is still here. He tries not to burst into tears at that simple fact. Connor always seems to know what he means when he says something, even if he has no idea what the fuck he’s trying to say himself.

God, this kid deserves better than him.

Hank tries to ground himself through the alcohol and the grief. It takes a long time for his body to wind down into something that’s more of a neutral state than a downward spiral. His senses creep back one by one, tired and muted, but back nonetheless.

Cricket song is coming in through the open window above the sink, broken only by Connor’s soft breathing and Sumo’s obnoxious snoring drifting from over on the couch. The back of his shirt is sticking from the sheen of sweat all over his body. When he shifts in the chair, it creaks in the same annoying way it has for years. 

He drinks the sensations in and lets them settle his body. When he gets the courage to open his eyes, Connor is still there, silently watching him. It hurts but it’s bearable now that Hank can see the LED. It’s yellow, which isn’t good, but it could be blood, which would be much, much worse. 

He shoves the thought back, leaning over the table to reach for his drink instead, but Connor pushes the half-empty glass of water into his hands. The android is careful not to touch him and he’d be grateful if only he had some more alcohol in his system. Or… less.

Hank releases a long, shuddered sigh. It’s remarkably smooth for a man who was just on the brink, but he supposes that’s the mark of a good detective and not a sign that he’s getting too used to this shit.

“How are you feeling?” Connor asks, his voice betraying a hint of hesitance as if he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

“... it was a fender bender, Hank, and it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He murmurs, taking a sip of water before raising the glass to his forehead to let the condensation cool him down. “You okay? Why are you still up?”

Connor gives him a puzzled little quirk of the lips. “I’m fine. I finished charging a while ago and heard you moving around in your room, but I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

The android had scared the bejeezus out of him a few weeks after Hank had cleared out the guest room for Connor. He’d woken up to take a piss and found the younger man lingering in the doorway to his bedroom, LED a tense yellow and looking troubled. 

Not to sound old-fashioned, but he doesn’t really like the idea of someone watching him as he sleeps, so he’d sat down with the android to discuss some ground rules.

Hank gets it. Kid doesn’t like to be alone, especially not at night when it’s just him and his thoughts, but a man’s gotta sleep. It’s a problem if he doesn’t feel comfortable in his own bedroom, so they have a closed-door policy, and Connor gets free reign over the house so long as he keeps it down. 

It’s not optimal. Hank feels bad closing the door on Connor when all he wants is some company, but there are some benefits, if you can call it that. He’s taken to hiding liquor under his bed like a teenager so he can have something to calm his nerves before bed. Connor is serious enough about respecting his privacy that he hasn’t said anything to Hank about it, even though Hank is pretty sure he can smell the alcohol through his door like a fucking bloodhound.

He thought his room would feel sacred, a place where he could finally recharge after a long day, but it’s just lonely. Sumo doesn’t snooze at the foot of his bed anymore because he doesn’t wanna be stuck there all night. The liquor under his bed calls to him and it’s too easy to get shitfaced when you don’t even gotta sit up to drink.

“Hank, can we talk about what just happened?”

Fuck. “No.”

“Maybe if I cleaned out–“

“ _ No _ .”

“Please, there must–“

“God dammit, Connor!” he slams the glass back onto the kitchen table, so sudden he startles even himself, let alone the android who is hyper aware of every gesture he makes right now. Connor flinches but doesn’t shrink away, instead falling silent, lips pursed. 

Hank ducks his head in shame, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his aching neck. He hadn’t meant to yell. 

“M’sorry, kid. I’m just kinda...” he shrugs in lieu of a concrete answer. 

Sumo, disturbed by the sudden noise, pads over from his sleeping spot on the couch to lay his head on Hank’s leg. The old fucker is drooling all over his nice trainers but he can’t bring himself to care as he runs his fingers through his dog’s fur.

“Drunk. You’re drunk.”

“Well, yeah, a bit. But that doesn’t make yelling at you okay.”

“You had a flashback of the night Cole died, didn’t you?”

One of Hank’s eyes twitches. “I– c’mon, flashback is a strong word. And don’t– don’t say his name, alright?”

“Why not?” Connor looks curious but seems to know better than to lean in within hitting range.

“I dunno,” he sighs. Sumo is easier to look at so he does his best to trace the dog’s droopy face and wrinkles in his mind’s eye as he comes up with an answer. “You two are from different parts of my life, I guess. I’d rather they not get mixed up.”

Connor nods, gaze falling to his clasped hands resting on the table. “Has it been worrying you, that you’ll get the past mixed up with the present?”

His scoff comes out harsh. “That’s just about my entire schtick, don’t you think? An old fuck that’s too busy drowning his past in alcohol to face the present, ask anyone at the precinct and they’ll all tell you the same thing.”

The silence drags on for a couple seconds longer than is comfortable. Hank can practically hear the gears churning in the kid’s skull as one of the android’s fingers taps erratically against his palm.

Hank leans back in his chair to wait it out. Instead of opening his dumb mouth again, he focuses on breathing like the good shrink told him to whenever he got worked up. It helps when he does it just as an afterthought. Less pressure on him to get it right. 

He’s nodding off by the time Connor speaks up.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Hank?”

“What?” he sits up, trying to blink away the drowsiness that had settled in the calm silence. “You’re asking me that  _ now?” _

A small smile ghosts across the android’s lips but it’s short-lived as he continues. “I often find myself reanalyzing past events long after I’ve exhausted all reasonable conclusions. A part of me is convinced that I’ve missed something but it’s not based on any solid evidence.” 

Connor’s expression flickers like a flame, fluidly transitioning from one unreadable face to another. “I’ve tried to stop but no matter how many times I kill the process it simply returns when I’m focusing on something else.” He frowns, pausing his nervous tapping to finally look into Hank’s eyes. “I have never had a family or seen a loved one die. However, there are many things that I regret doing – that I regret  _ not _ doing – and if there’s anything that binds people together, I believe that is it.”

He pauses, and when it becomes clear Connor is going to need a push, Hank gives him a nudge.

“Well, what was your ‘personal question’ then?”

Connor’s face stills and while his eyes are pointed in his direction, Hank can tell he’s not in the kitchen anymore. His partner shudders slightly, hand rubbing his shoulder despite the warm summer breeze lazily blowing in through the window.

“I feel as if the past won’t let go of me,” his voice is so small, as if saying it any louder would make it come true. “Do you feel that way when you think about Cole?”

Hank doesn’t know what to say. He can brush people off with words and needle them into telling him the truth (he’s really fucking good at that) but heart-to-hearts have never been his strong suit. He avoids them like the plague. 

But here is Connor, pulling his own weight and more in a conversation that  _ matters _ .

_ Do right by him, Hank. _

“Yeah, I do,” he huffs, a different kind of tired settling on his bones. “I’m sorry to hear that. It really sucks, huh?”

Connor nods slowly in agreement but otherwise doesn’t get any less tense. Hank would grimace but he doesn’t want Connor to get the wrong idea, so after a few seconds of silence he scoots closer and pats Connor’s hands which are tightly clasped on the table.

He leans in close enough to count the kid’s freckles in the dim kitchen light and lowers his voice to match. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m really sorry.”

Connor looks up, tears welling in his eyes. His lip curls as he meets Hank’s gaze. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

Hank tries to hold it in, he does, but the moment he guides Connor to his chest his efforts seem so stupid and short-sighted. He’s not gonna sit here and watch again as his life and the people he loves slip through his fingers.

That includes Connor. And damn it all, that includes himself too, because Connor is heavily leaning into him like he’s about to collapse. He’s stiff as a board and Hank wonders if the android has ever been hugged before as he tucks his lithe frame closer, pressing his cheek against the top of Connor’s head.

The light scent of Connor’s shampoo (the natural lilac kind that he’d picked out himself after careful analysis of every brand) tickles his nose but he’s not gonna sneeze like a fucking animal while they’re having a moment. 

He focuses instead on Connor’s steady breathing and matches its rhythm with a hand gently rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. Hank used to do this with Cole and he hasn’t done it since, but Connor isn’t Cole and now isn’t then.

It’s not important that Connor isn’t reciprocating, only that he’s slowly relaxing into Hank’s hug. The reflection of his LED on the window flickers before finally settling on a calm blue but Connor doesn’t move away. 

“You know,” the words rumble deep in his chest, “It’s gotten easier since I met you. The weight of– I don’t know, everything, isn’t any lighter now than it was before. But you just being here is making a helluva difference. I feel…” he sighs, closing his eyes as Connor goes completely still in his arms. “Stronger in a way. My dad used to tell me: ‘Hank, don’t go around askin’ for a lighter load, but for broader shoulders.’”

He hasn’t thought about his dad, bless his old bastard soul, in years without being plagued by his own failure as a father. There’s a well-worn place in his heart for shame and regret but it seems like a cozy nook now, a total 180 from the hungry emptiness it was just a while ago, and he basks in it and Connor’s warmth. 

“You did well in following his advice,” Connor’s murmur is muffled by Hank’s nightshirt, a thread of amusement in his sincerity. “You have  _ very _ broad shoulders.”

A smile sneaks its way across his lips and Hank has to close his eyes before the tears spill over, hugging Connor a bit tighter in lieu of words. They sit there for a few moments before the peaceful cricket song is interrupted by Sumo’s bark as he tries to jump onto Hank’s lap and join the hug.

“Sum– oh  _ fuck _ !”

Connor has the mind to grab the kitchen table but unfortunately Hank’s arms are still wrapped around the smaller man and they all go down in a heap on the linoleum floor.

Sumo happily slobbers all over Hank’s much more accessible face as the man wheezes for air from the sudden impact, trying in vain to push the heavy dog off his chest. 

Connor is– the little shit is laughing from his spot on the floor, are you serious? 

“Get’im offa me!”

The android grins as he hugs the dog from behind and slowly drags him off of Hank, not even bothering to ward away Sumo’s loving kisses. 

“Good boy, Sumo,” Connor smiles, burying his face into their dog’s thick coat. “We weren’t gonna leave you out, right Hank?”

Hank sighs, still wiping the dog spit off his cheek, and scoots over to embrace both Connor and Sumo. He ruffles the hair on their heads before squeezing them all together. Connor laughs again, and the ache of his body from being tackled to the ground fades away, so he decides to kick it up a notch.

With a mighty heave and the cracking of his knees, he lifts the two into the air. Connor turns his head to look at Hank, disbelieving and a little concerned, while Sumo continues to pant happily. 

“Hank, maybe you shouldn’t…” Connor chuckles, covering his mouth in a very human gesture. 

It’s great! He’s great! He can do this forever! 

Fuck, no he can’t. He can barely lift Sumo on a good day. Regret makes his legs shake (helped by the combined weight of an android and slightly pudgy St. Bernard, but it’s mostly regret) and he barely makes it to the living room couch before plopping them onto its cushions. 

“Good night,” Hank huffs, red with effort and also embarrassment because  _ fuck he’s old Connor could bench press me and Sumo no problem _ , and hurriedly makes his way back to his room, gun and drink forgotten. 

“Good night!” Connor calls back, and Hank can hear the cushions shift as Connor and Sumo get comfortable on the couch.

He smiles as he closes his door, and when he gets into bed, and when he fluffs his pillow, and when he’s thinking about tomorrow, and when he’s drifting off to sleep.

It sure is.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lotta feelings. I started this fic in the midst of a depressive spiral (that i’m still currently in) but writing a story that resolves with a sense of hope is so so so therapeutic for me. 
> 
> Take care of yourselves. Goodnight, I love you.


End file.
